


Injury and Cuddles, A Weird Combination.

by ThatOneWeirdWriter



Series: Dream Team and DreamNotFound One-Shots [6]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Comfort/Angst, Fist Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Major Character Injury, Major Injury, Mild Gore, Sleepy Cuddles, Stabbing, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26277247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWeirdWriter/pseuds/ThatOneWeirdWriter
Summary: "Falling back into sleeps waiting arms while holding his most beloved close. If he got to wake up to this everyday then he would take a blade more often, but he knew he didn't have to because it was already a reality."
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Wilbur Soot, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound/Wilbur Soot
Series: Dream Team and DreamNotFound One-Shots [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862128
Comments: 4
Kudos: 176





	Injury and Cuddles, A Weird Combination.

Blood, so much blood. It was everywhere, on his clothes, the ground, the swords that were laying a few feet away from them. The crimson color should have made the male sick, made him scream and run but it provided a sick sense of comfort. A comfort he couldn't describe, one that hurt but made him smile. He didn't understand why.

Maybe it was because he was desensitized to blood, war did come with pain and blood. Gore and death, it was inevitable but he could wish. Just as he could wish on each and every star above him, just like kids picking pappus' out of the soil and blowing them into the wind with a wish, it only provided him with a small ounce of comfort.

It was almost comical seeing someone with so much pride be reduced to nothing more than a feral beast. He liked to think that he could have stopped it but something told him otherwise. The two thoughts battling in his head non-stop, like a broken record repeating the same thing over and over again. The record didn't want that though, it wants to play and move forward with the song but it cant. He cant stop wondering if this could have been avoided.

Maybe if he gave in and let hopes of freedom blow away, then no war would have happened. He wished it was that simple, he wishes that he could go back and start over, but what good would it do? War seemed like the only option, it was freedom or death. Time moved at its own pace but somethings seemed to want to get in the way of time, forcing things onto it that it just cant bare. War took time and energy, but how much more time did they have?

He knew they had enough, but barely. Just like he barely had time to process the fists being punched into his gut, sending flashes of pain through his head and bile to his throat. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten lunch with Tommy earlier, a good two emeralds wasted if it were to just come up again. He hoped Tommy wouldn't be upset, it wasn't his fault anyway.

The unmoving face of the mask gave no comfort as a flat line ringing in his ears reminding him that death could come whenever. Grip him so tight that he wouldn't be able to breath but let go and give him another shot. Another shot at what though? Killing people so that they could have freedom, hiding with his lover so that the boy wouldn't have to suffer, what was the point of life if all it brought was pain to him and others?

Voices spoke, muffled but loud. He couldn't hear them clearly but knew he should be able to. The ringing was too loud, the pain was to present, and his head racing too fast to catch up or comprehend a single thought. George. He knew this was about him but it shouldn't, the boy didn't deserve it.

A scream. Piercing and loud, but something clear. A voice that was clear, still his body didn't move. He could move, his arms being pinned by something or someone who had no remorse for a dying man. Blood was all over the mask, his vision fuzzy but he saw so much red. A deep red adorning everything. Is he crying?

Maybe he is, he hopes not. He was supposed to be strong for his people not dead on the ground. He wanted George, he wanted to comfort and loving feeling of George. Where was he? He hopes he isn't here, he shouldn't seem his lover like this, bloody and in pain. He wish he could see George, see his smile and hear his laugh.

_"George.."_

His voice horse and dry but the syllables still loud and comprehendible. Again muffled but loud voices spoke around him, even if he couldn't understand they sounded like they thought he did. There was pain on his right cheek, a searing splitting pain pulling him from his loopy state of mind and into a much clearer one.

Dream had cut his cheek with the blade of his axe, the diamond surface now coated in small amounts of blood. The man holding the axe stood in front of him, his mask cracked and broken revealing on of his crazed emerald eyes. He would have laughed at how he still wore the item even after George destroyed it before him, maybe he was holding on to the hope that the boy loved him?

Comical seeing how George expressed hatred for him so often. Dream seemed distant, his mind somewhere far from here even though his body stood in front of Wilbur. His emerald eyes murky with pain and frustration but still managed to hold anger and hatred at the front. Almost like a second mask, clouding how he felt with something close but not exactly there. 

"YOU TOOK HIM FROM ME! HE WAS MINE BUT YOU TOOK HIM!" 

He hardly sounded like himself anymore, he was hollow and gone. Dream was taken, taken somewhere far from the warm embrace of sanity and down a dark path of insanity. George never led Dream on though, he never expressed love for Dream and hardly anyone else on the Dream Team. They chalked it up to him not wanting or liking to express affection. 

The blade was now on his neck, right next to his jugular. He knew he would respawn, but it didn't stop him from feeling the pain of the blade cutting through the sensitive vein. He closed his eyes, letting darkness envelope him and provide a bitter sweet sense of comfort. Wilbur waited for him to feel the excruciating pain and then wake up in his bed.

It never came though, he opened his eyes and saw now dull green eyes staring into his brown ones. They slowly trailed down and focused on an arrow that had gone straight through his heart, the tip coated in the crimson that filled his vision, he knew the tip of the arrow was sharpened extra, making the arrow hurt that much more. 

Dreams eyes flickered from bright to dull, life or death before finally shutting and letting his body fall to the ground. Blood seeped out of the wound for a moment before his body slowly fizzled into a white fog and then disappearing completely. A sad sight, but not sad enough for Wilbur to feel guilty.

There were hands on Wilbur's face the moment Dream's body disappeared, warm and safe hands that shook a little too violently. George. George stood in front of him, the L'manburg uniform proudly adorning his body but covered in blood. Why was there so much blood? Wilbur hated the word blood, there was too much around him to be safe. 

Loud sounds were all around him. Shouting, footsteps, explosions, everything Wilbur didn't want. He kept his eyes focused on George, how beautiful he was. His soft rosy lips, chocolate brown eyes that held so much love, George wasn't built like him or Fundy but he still kept up with his figure, making him the perfect balance of fat and muscle.

His vision began to fade in and out, black dots littering the world. His hearing wasn't any better, he saw Georges mouth moving but could only hear a muffled and seemingly distant voice. He roughly understood that he was being carried by Fundy, the orange unmoving fox mask looking straight ahead. George was next to him, holding Wilbur's hand and speaking to him.

He wished he could understand what the male was saying though. His eyes trailed down his own body, his outfit was covered in blood but seemed to concentrate on one area on his abdomen. A blade was dug into his stomach, when did that happen? Wilbur couldn't recall Dream ever stabbing him, or wielding a sword after they knocked both away from themselves. 

He felt a cool liquid being poured over the cut on his cheek. A healing potion, but only enough in the bottle to heal a small wound. George was crying and mumbling, Wilbur could tell he was blaming himself for his injuries. He squeezed his lvoers hand gently, hoping it gave some form of comfort before his vision was enveloped in darkness.

~.~.~.~

Warm and soft. That was what Wilbur felt when his body finally regained consciousness. His mind taking a few moments to process everything before fully understanding that he was in his bed wrapped up in the warm, blue sheets. It felt extra warm though, like a heater was placed next to him or the campfire outside his cabin was now inside. 

He looked to the side and realized that instead of a campfire or heater it was George. His body pressed snug against Wilbur's side, softly snoring into the nape of his neck. His brown locks going every which way and face resting in a peaceful emotion that could only be described as a sleeping face. A warmth spread throughout Wilbur's stomach.

The warmth spreading like a plague through his body, until finally reaching and resting on his cheeks. A soft smile adorned his lips as the two cuddled, Wilbur falling back into sleeps waiting arms while holding his most beloved close. If he got to wake up to this everyday then he would take a blade more often, but he knew he didn't have to because it was already a reality.


End file.
